


until next Tuesday

by sirfeit



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Heist AU, M/M, Waxing poetic about paintings, art thieves, unnecessary greek architecture knowledge?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24531739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfeit/pseuds/sirfeit
Summary: jm2 + heist AU + “is now REALLY the time for this?”
Relationships: John Mbege/John Murphy
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	until next Tuesday

It’s never been “one more heist, and then we’ll retire forever”. It’s never been that way between them. They do this every Tuesday until they die. For them? It’s cradle to grave, baby, crime after time after crime, that’s how they’ve always been. Always on someone else’s dime.

Mbege handles the technical stuff. Murphy lets him. It’s a good match-up.

This evening, they’re stealing this fancy painting from the local museum. They used to go big, like at the Smithsonian, or the Louvre, but Mbege got shot in the leg by a security system (old man with a flashlight) recently, so they’re taking it slow, doing it a little smaller. Plus, travel is just so expensive these days. And think about the toll on the environment.

So. It’s the special exhibit, but they’re familiar with the hypocaust, and they’ve donated many things here. Hey, they can appreciate the art sometimes, too. And their apartment is only so big.

They’re arguing on the way there. But, you know, in a friendly way.

“Night sky #364?” Murphy is asking, disgusted. “Like, did he paint 363 of them before? And obviously it’s the night sky. It’s got the moon in it. A title of a painting should add an extra layer to the art. And this one is just stupid.”

“It does add an extra layer,” says Mbege, even. He’s the clear and calm of the two; that’s why he works better with the machines. Murphy always tries to smash them if they’re too finicky. It’s simply the quickest way to get what he wants. Anyhow, Mbege doesn’t talk much. “Think of the number of days.”

“The number of days?” Murphy asks, incredibly stupid.

“The number of days in a year,” says Mbege, patient. More than Murphy deserves. “Maybe this is the last day before he gives up. Maybe this really is the three hundred and sixty-fourth of the paintings he’s done. Hold this,” he interjects, as he kneels down to handle the keypad on the door. It’s not that he’s unusually tall for the door, but he can get at its underside more easily from here. Murphy takes Mbege’s set of thieves’ tools, all wrapped up nicely in a little suede package, so as to not damage them.

The streetlight is on, casting a shadow over the two of them. Murphy covers for Mbege, although the fairway is empty; it’s too late at night for anyone to come by. The camera that covers the parking lot has been on a loop ever since Mbege set it that way two years ago; they’re both pretty sure nobody ever checks it.

“You been thinkin about this a lot, John?” Murphy asks, mockingly. Not mockingly. Teasingly. There’s never been any real malice between them, not even when one of them goes too far and gets punched. Hey; people say that friends don’t destroy one another, what do they know about friends? Mbege takes a deep breath. Right. They’re arguing about the title of the painting.

“It’s pretty,” he shrugs, like it’s some easy thing. “And it’s worth twelve million dollars. Thought we could put it up on the mantelpiece for a while.”

“Where’re we gonna fence it?” Murphy asks, poking at a problem that they don’t really have.

“You this worried all the time, John?” Mbege snaps back, just as the keypad gives way beneath his fingers. “You said we were gonna take something I liked, for once. As a treat.” The door swings open, revealing the still-dark storage room of the museum. Mbege waves Murphy impatiently forward. Murphy shrugs and steps in. The hypocaust of the original building -- the system underneath the floor that keeps the building heated during the winter -- should be clear and empty, primarily because it is not a passageway for people. And it’s still only early autumn - it was still seventy out today, so nobody should be getting it ready for winter. That’s the plan, anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says Murphy, and that’s the end of that conversation, as he hands Mbege’s tools back over. They’re both dressed, very stylishly, in black; black leggings, black leotards, black slip-on shoes. Mbege’s wearing a jacket because he needed pockets. He still keeps handing all of his things to Murphy.

The hypocaust is empty, as they expected; it’s not tall enough for them to walk in, but they don’t have to slither along on their bellies, like they did in Greece. That was a messy operation. But they survived, huh? They’re both survivors. Mbege hits his head twice, but he only swears, quietly, once. It echoes in the empty, cramped, space, and Murphy laughs.

“You really think someone made three hundred sixty paintings of the night sky before they got one they liked?” Murphy asks, quietly, after another beat of silence.

Mbege sighs through his nose. “I think maybe they were waiting for someone,” he says. “Waiting for someone to say something, or do something, and then they said it, and they submitted the painting to an art show -- it won the Cannes festival, you know -- and now the museum’s got it. It’s not old -- it’s not a piece of history. It’s someone’s current journey, something they’re doing now. The artist is probably still painting something, somewhere.”

“You really thought about that, huh,” says Murphy, and Mbege swallows, realizing how much he’s said. They’ve both been “artists” in their time, but never anything original. Always forgeries, to fence, or to replace. But sometimes he wishes -- he thinks about --

“The clouds in it are pink,” Mbege says out loud. “You know I like pink.”

And Murphy laughs again, like it’s not a big deal. “Yeah, well,” he says. “I know what it feels like to wait.” And it’s this kind of -- jolt of realization that goes through Mbege, that maybe Murphy’s laugh isn’t, jeering, or mean, that it’s --

They are coming up out of the hypocaust now. Murphy clambers out first, helps Mbege out. The painting is right there, affixed to the wall with a series of brackets. Mbege shoves Murphy into the camera blindspot while he pulls out his phone to disable it. In the corner. his hand on Murphy’s chest, he can feel him breathing. It’s nothing. They do this every Tuesday night. _I know what it feels like to wait_. The wound in his thigh -- where Murphy pulled the bullet out -- biting his bottom lip in concentration -- Mbege’s heart seems unfairly loud. Unusually loud. Not unfairly. It’s -- he’s fine. He breathes. Murphy breathes, not looking at Mbege’s phone, just watching his face, quiet interest.

“You’re clear,” says Mbege, as he finishes, and makes himself step away from Murphy. Murphy makes quick work of the brackets on the wall -- it’s still on its bare canvas, no frame, just how the artist wanted it -- and pulls it from the wall. They both catch their breath as they listen for alarms, but they do good work, and there’s nothing. As Murphy takes it down, he flips it over.

“Huh,” says Murphy, having processed whatever is on the back, and he tilts it so Mbege can read it. Mbege takes a step closer.  
  
The back reads: _for you, my darling: 365 night skies_

“It was about love, the whole time,” says Murphy, and when he looks up at Mbege, when he --

Mbege closes the gap between them. “Maybe --” he says, but he steps just slightly wrong, and there is a shrieking of an alarm somewhere deeper in the museum.

Murphy reaches up, cups a hand around the back of his neck, and drags him down just enough to kiss him. Mbege feels warm, too warm, can feel his cheeks heating up, and he can hear the alarm in the background, and he lets himself say, exasperated, “Is now really the best time for this?”

Murphy smirks, because that always gets him the best results. “No,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

They make it home, safe, until next Tuesday.


End file.
